


Forever More

by BoughtMyWayIntoPopCulture



Series: Rolling in the Deep [4]
Category: City of Love: Paris (Visual Novel)
Genre: Anachronistic, And others are straight up just early draft editions from RITD, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Previous Relationships, One Shot Collection, Others will be fluffy, Romantic Fluff, These two are challenging, Warnings May Change, and therefore will have a lot of other challenges along the way, everything is out of order, part of this will be dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoughtMyWayIntoPopCulture/pseuds/BoughtMyWayIntoPopCulture
Summary: Pseudo-sequel to Rolling in the Deep.  A series of related one-shots, covering past and future events.  Please see first chapter for naming conventions.
Relationships: Vincent Karm/Original Character(s), Vincent Karm/Paul (Previous)
Series: Rolling in the Deep [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777750
Comments: 30
Kudos: 8





	1. In Which Emotions Were Repressed

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a pet-project than anything else, as I can't seem to quite shake the threads that were established in Rolling in the Deep. In here, you'll find early drafts of the story, demonstrating the very different turns the story took, as well one-shots that take place before, during, and after the main story. 
> 
> One-shots that act as the 'sequel' will be marked with a Roman numeral.   
> Past one-shots: a capital letter, beginning with A.  
> One-shots pertaining to Sophia: marked with an S.  
> Vincent-centric one-shots: marked with a V.   
> Anything else will not be marked and will have chapter notes for context.
> 
> Up first, have some early drafts of emotional reveals (or lackthereof)! Takes place first within season 1, and then jumps to the middle/late season 2. Written far before things got super wacky with season 2 and when I took slow-burn a little too literally.

Sophia  _ hated  _ tiny, cramped spiral staircases; getting to Vincent’s lab was a maze in and of itself to begin with, had the spiral staircase really been necessary?

To be fair, it was here long before Vincent found the space. But it wasn’t as though he couldn’t have replaced it.

She hesitantly made her way down after being cleared by the guard upstairs, her eyes not quite used to the dim lighting yet. Sophia reached the halfway point and peered down into the lab. Vincent sat at the table, his jacket neatly hung up as it usually was, his cufflinks on the table; his sleeves were rolled up to accommodate the needle he had in the crook of his elbow. His hair was unkempt, as if he had had a fit of frustration, a few stray pieces crossing over his forehead. 

She had never seen him without his jacket before; he looked so...casual to her. Minus the needle, of course. The contents of which glowed as much as the essence, but had a gold tint to it instead.

Interesting.

She descended the stairs slowly, careful not to distract him. She heard the tell-tale jingle of Esteban’s collar as the pug came out from under Vincent’s chair to greet her.

“What was it you wanted to see me for?” She asked, bending down to pick up the pug.

Esteban licked her chin gently before settling into her arms, huffing in content. She was surprised Vincent brought him down here; it was dangerous for the little dog to get caught underfoot or get into something. But then again, he was rarely curious in Vincent’s office, so perhaps there wasn’t much difference.

Vincent glanced up at her and she caught a glimpse of...was that worry? It certainly wasn’t as impassive as his usual expression. It was gone as soon as it came and she doubted if she ever saw it at all.

The man who made death threats to other people concerned about her fate? Impossible. 

She made her way into the specimen room, the fluorescent lights harsh and white. The plants were all green, healthy, some bearing bright flowers. Probably poison ones.

She heard Vincent’s footsteps as he stood and moved about the main room. 

“Take off your jacket and have a seat, you’ll see soon enough.”

Sophia shed her leather jacket and hung it up on the coat rack, the sleeves brushing Vincent’s suit jacket. She eyed the stool warily but sat down, watching him for a moment. She felt her face grow hot again when she realized she was staring at him, his waistcoat only accentuating the slim frame she knew well. She looked away when he turned around, slightly afraid that if he looked her square in the eyes, he’d see what she’d been thinking.

Vincent sat in a nearby chair, the corner of the table between them. He placed a tiny bottle of the same glowing gold liquid and a packaged syringe on the surface, along with a tourniquet and a few alcohol wipes. 

“Left or right arm?”

Sophia turned towards him slightly to rest her left elbow on the table. It took everything in her to pay attention to her heart flutter as his fingers grazed her forearm.

“A countermeasure,” he said softly, tying the tourniquet and searching for a vein. He had no trouble finding one. Despite the chill down here, his hands were warm and never faltered in their actions. “It’ll prevent any amount of the Essence to affect you. If all goes according to plan, I need you coherent. And if this nosy journalist has her way, it’ll never be used against you.”

_ Is he doubting himself? Or did he realize he underestimated her? _

He opened the syringe and filled it halfway with the luminous liquid.

_ Why are you protecting me from yourself, from your own creation? What are you afraid of? _

The words were on the cusp of her lips but they never came. Vincent leaned forward and took her arm gently with one hand, the other arranging the syringe. She winced as the needle pierced her skin and was vaguely aware of his thumb rubbing her arm when she hissed. 

It  _ burned  _ . Worse than any shot she ever got, any IV needle she’d ever had. Worse than any alcohol she ever consumed. For a moment, she felt euphoria, her entire body on fire, her head spinning and heart beating like a drum.

Everything she ever felt since their first meeting concentrated into a single moment. Her veins were filled with liquid fire, scorching, licking at her skin for satisfaction. Yet it was tethered to something so emotional, so utterly pure, she wanted to cry. She couldn’t handle much more of this...

He untied the tourniquet and covered the needle mark with a small bandage. Sophia stayed seated as he moved about the space, cleaning up and disposing of the needle in the same plastic bin from earlier. Sophia focused on pushing air into her lungs, fighting back the remnants of the ecstasy and fire, the longing that refused to go away. Her blood hummed in her ears as her pulse refused to slow.

And then there was nothing. It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice over her, the fire was gone as quickly as it began.

Sophia looked up at him, eyes wide. For the second time that night, she had light flashed into her eyes, but this was brief, just to check her pupils. Fingers found her pulse that, while faster than normal, was nowhere near what it had been moments earlier.

“I can see why it was buried,” she murmured as he turned away and went to the laptop, where he quickly typed a note.

“It’s far more controlled than the real thing, at least psychologically.”

“You’ve tried it?”

“I couldn’t sell a product I didn’t try, at least in some form,” he replied, shutting the laptop and returning to the chair he previously occupied. “But everything is finalized. Marion has her orders and she’ll get final press release details in a few days.”

He leaned back slightly in the chair, his usual confident air returning as he interlaced his fingers and rested his hands in his lap. 

_ Does he know about the story? _

“What about Kingsley?” Sophia found herself asking.

“The journalist can do nothing at this point, at least not publicly.”

“Not even an article revealing everything?”

Vincent’s eyes grew wide for a moment in realization. “So  _ that  _ was why that computer was on. Clever indeed. Marion must not have had the credentials reset yet.”

He pulled out his phone and Sophia did the same. She pulled up the  _ City of Love  _ homepage and found nothing new. Nothing on Vincent, nothing about the Essence. Audrey Kingsley hadn’t published anything in over a week.

“Marion stayed behind; whatever the pesky woman attempted to do didn’t happen,” Vincent slid his phone back into his pocket. “But how did you…?”

She shrugged. “The artist. Leo Dubois. They’re friends. He mentioned it to Alexandre.”

Sophia looked away, her eyes scanning the lab before falling back onto the table. The ring caught her attention again. She never saw it anywhere but his hand and she could just make out a name engraved in the band, the last name obscured by the angle. Paul.

Was Paul…?

Before she could ask, the ring’s owner plucked it from the surface and tucked it away in his pocket, eyes not meeting hers. After a moment, he rose and began looking through the small drawers of the chest nearby. Glass clinked and metal scrapped, until finally he found what he was looking for. 

Yet he didn’t seem keen to move just yet.

Without turning around, Vincent said, “If I asked something of you, Ms. Cousland, would you do it?”

“That would depend, I think.”

Not the answer he wanted to hear, she could tell. He looked down at the item in his hand, shoulders tight.

“If you accepted blindly, I might be far more concerned.”

Sophia frowned, confused, and rose from her seat. Her head spun for a moment, parts of her still feeling the effects of the Essence. Namely her heart, which seemed keen to beat right out of her chest.

“I need you to leave Paris. Tonight.”

“Why?”

Vincent’s brow furled at her questioning. “Does it matter?”

“Considering what you hired me for, what I’m wrapped up in,  _ yes _ , it matters. I can’t just-”

Whatever distance existed between them vanished in a split second as his hand found her chin and his lips met hers, the warmth of each other’s body radiating almost violently. She was distinctly aware of the rise and fall of her own chest, of her own desire deepening the kiss of its own accord. There was nothing impassive or calm about the way they reacted to one another and she felt dizzy, weak even, when they pulled away for air.

“Vincent, I don’t-“

Another kiss, even deeper, this time his hands finding hers and pressing something into them. Metallic and warm. A set of keys.

When they pulled away, Vincent’s hands remained on her face, forcing her to look up at him. Pain was etched across his face. 

“You will leave tonight. I cannot-I  _ will _ not-have you caught up in this.”

Everything she had been hiding seemed to bubble over inside her. He…they…all this time, she thought her jealousy was misplaced, that she was overthinking the tiny skips of her heart whenever she was alone with him too long. When in fact, he…

_ He  _ did _ underestimate the journalist, didn’t he? _

Fury welled up inside her. Was he using her infatuation with him against her? “What  _ is  _ this, Vincent? You can’t just kiss me and send me away!”

“You said it yourself that you wanted no part of the Essence. I’m following through.”

“I can’t just leave!”

Another kiss, harder, demonstrative of things she longed for, her very soul skimming the surface of her body.

“You can and you will. For your own safety. I will not repeat myself, Sophia. And I will not lose the one person I’ve come to care for in this entire affair. I cannot lose anyone else; do you understand?”

Numb for a moment, she nodded.

“Pack your things. Those keys are to the house in Chartres. Eugene will escort you in the morning.”

“So, I’m to be sent away?” Sophia asked, her voice thick. “Like an unwanted burden?”

His response was gentle but firm. “The last thing you are is a burden. You are so many things, Sophia, and I don’t have time to list all of them. You hold more than just keys in your hands, remember that.”

As she left, fighting tears, the keys grew leaden in her hands at the knowledge he would rather push her away than admit she was the one weakness to be exploited.

* * *

_ Two years and many letters later... _

He stepped out of the car, thankful it was unmarked rather than an actual police car, and stood for a moment with his eyes closed, breathing in the country air. For the first time, he felt the sun on his face without the looming presence of a guard, without a fence around him to contain where he was allowed to go within the confines of the prison. Inspector Dubois had mentioned business back in Paris when they arrived, but threatened him severely if he broke the perimeter of his ankle bracelet before driving off as soon as Vincent had exited the car. The perimeter was a large one; the property was expansive, several acres stretching out in each direction. It was a precaution to make sure he didn’t try to leave the country, he was sure, but his assets were still frozen anyway.

He wasn’t free, per say, but if all went as it was supposed, he was going to be.

He had little on him; what he had when he was arrested fit into his pockets, and he had plenty of clothing here to suffice. He had at least remembered and taken care of his favorite sunglasses that now covered his green eyes as he looked up, finding a single figure in the library that overlooked the drive, her back to the window.

He would visit her as soon as he had properly showered and changed into a suit that hadn’t been worn in that hellhole.

He had never forgotten what real water pressure was like but the reminder was  _ so  _ nice. He stood for ages in the hot water, reveling in the privacy (not that he ever had to share a shower space with anyone  _ anyway _ ) and the luxury of his own space. His. Not government sanctioned, not worn with use and age, upkept but clean and designed for him specifically.

He examined the anklet as he dressed, adjusting it in order to slide his sock underneath the itchy thing without ruining his cuticles. There was a better solution to this, surely, than strapping a bloody box to an ankle.

Vincent fixed his dark hair and straightened his tie a final time. He felt human again for the first time in two years, even if he was confined to the property. He’d have to work twice as hard to get his reputation back when this was over, even if he did help solve the forgery-plus-murder. For now, he’ll take what he could get.

His heart sped up a fraction of a second at the thought of seeing her again as he made his way to the library. She hadn’t been allowed to visit him in prison to keep up her appearance in the forgery ring; they couldn’t know she was tied to him. Over two years, at this point, they had only communicated through letters, with her sending the occasional picture of Esteban.

Oh, his princeling. He had no doubt that his dog was with her, in the library, likely curled up in his favorite armchair.

Regardless, they needed to talk. Much was left unsaid, unacted upon, despite the four years of their arrangement prior to his arrest. He had gotten as far as calming her slight jealously that night in the catacombs, murmuring the American wasn’t the one he cared about while brushing stray hair from her forehead. He had given her an antiserum to the essence, repeatedly telling himself it was to keep her free from influence when it was because he was terrified of discovering what she was like so deep in love.

Sophia Cousland had wormed her way into his heart and for the first time in a long time, he was unable to predict her reactions.

He watched her from the doorframe silently, her dark hair curled and pulled back out of her face, her blue eyes focused on the text in front of her as she stood at the table, her body turned towards the bookshelf as if she was on the verge of searching for the next connection. She wore black pants and a white top with sheer sleeves pulled up to her elbows, the large ties in the front tied into a bow. Much like him, her casual wear never extended past dressing down, although she had a soft spot for denim when it was called for, he recalled. She was thinner than he remembered—certainly the journalist poking her nose where it didn’t belong wasn’t helping, nor was having to go into hiding to avoid a sniper—but he hadn’t forgotten how wonderful she looked when in her element, researching, examining, writing.

She was in her own world as she grabbed several closed books and spun to put them back on the shelf, making room for more, he was sure. He looked and found Esteban in the chair Vincent had claimed as his, curled up and sleeping; it faced the fireplace but from Sophia’s angle, she was able to keep an eye on him as well.

He silently walked over and scooped up the sleeping pug into his arms, who opened his eyes lazily at being shifted about, recognizing his master before closing his eyes again. He would be excited later; he was likely worn out from a morning walk.

Vincent made his way to the large table Sophia had conquered, speaking softly when he was a few feet from her.

“The connection you want is the Knights of Lutetia, judging by your timeline of the paintings.”

She nearly dropped the three books she held at hearing him, probably expecting to be alone until the others arrived this afternoon. She stared at him with large blue eyes, confusion and shock covering her features. “I…how…”

He glanced down at his feet, her eyes following and finding the boxy anklet. “Ah.”

“Laurent managed to make a deal with the judge who handled my case. A minor inconvenience to pay.”

“You say that now.” She placed the books on the table before turning back to face him, her body language demonstrating uncertainty before she moved forward to pet Esteban, who had nestled into the crook of his elbow. “He’s been quite lonely without you, he’s missed you immensely.”

_ And you?  _ He thought, watching her gaze at the dog in his arms. His heart willed the words to his lips but his brain wouldn’t let them pass.

“It would be a lie to say I didn’t miss you, too.” She murmured, avoiding eye contact. It was neutral enough to be interpreted any number of ways; four years was the longest he had worked with anyone, although two of them had been spent in jail. “If only for your quips and sarcasm.” She added, a smile teasing her lips. She was trying to break the awkwardness he had let slip between them, going back to what she knew best; her own humor and sarcasm.

“My best qualities, I’m told.”

“I’d say they compete with your devilishly good looks and brilliant mind.” She looked up at him with a soft smile before looking back to her books. “I could certainly use the latter right now.”

His heart pounded harder as he watched her, stunned at her ability to charm while managing to transition into work-mode. Oh, this would be fun later in front of everyone.

“Perhaps a break is best while the house is still quiet.” He eyed the cold cup of coffee to her far left, barely touched. Had she neglected breakfast entirely? “I could certainly do with actual food for once.”

She turned back to him and nodded, weariness tracing itself over her features. He brushed a stray hair from her face before taking her hand in his to lead her away from the pile of work. 

* * *

_ After a large discussion between most of the cast, in which Sophia and Vincent's history and the spark between them, intellectual and otherwise, is palpable for the entire room. An embarrassing remark causes her to withdraw for most of the day. _

He found her standing on the balcony outside of the library, a mug resting on the stone railing in front of her as she stared off at the countryside in the distance. She had clashed with Sarah and generally been made to feel unwelcome by everyone except TJ, who already knew her. He knew the feeling, she was sure. He hasn't been welcomed with open arms but they needed him, knew he had incentive to toe the line.

Sophia, however, they were unsure of, other than her affiliation with him. She understood. That didn't mean she wasn't insulted after four years of undercover work.

Her stance and the way she had her sweater pulled around her said everything, that she wanted to be alone. Vincent ignored that and came to stand beside her, leaning his forearms on the railing. She had gotten used to his height long ago, but it was still odd to remember how tiny she felt next to him, even though her five foot six frame meant she was about level with his chest. Her mind frame made her feel even smaller, pinpricks of words in the back of her mind, nagging her even though they weren't true. 

"I'm not talking about it." Sophia said before she took a drink, the smell of Earl Grey wafting from the steam.

"I don't want you to. The air in there is cloying, there's no consensus and no one wants to listen. Silence is...welcomed."

She nodded, unaware of how close they were standing, arms brushing against each other. Silence with Vincent was uncomfortable when she first started working with him; he was an intense person who knew what he wanted and how to get it, arrogant to a fault when he got ahead of himself, unbearable in his inability to take no for an answer. But, they had fallen into a pattern over the years and that pattern wasn't easily forgotten.

It was nice to not be alone with her thoughts, ones Sarah had all but fueled with her own words, insulting her. She had felt this way before, with Marion, when she had rubbed salt in her wound after hearing about the catacombs from the guards Vincent had with him.

To have her intelligence insulted was a crime she could never forgive. She hadn't clawed her way through finding and entering the forgery ring only for someone outside to undermine her.

"They'll see it. Perhaps not right now, but they will." Vincent said softly.

Sophia let a sardonic smile play on her lips as she shook her head. "Will they? Certainly doesn't feel that way."

She felt fingers brush stray hair from her face and push it behind her ear. "The reporter is smart and she trusts TJ, if no one else. And he trusts you. Consider that an accomplishment." 

"I won't until I can leave without a red dot on my forehead. Until this is over and Katherine is buried and everything goes back..."

"There's no normal after this." He finished her thought for her.

"Then something calmer that will replace it with a new normality." She retorted, her voice harder than she meant it to be. He didn't deserve to be the brunt of her frustration. "Sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for." She felt a tickling sensation at her shoulder as his fingers played with a stray tendril of hair. As much as he loved his dog, she half-wondered if Vincent was a cat in another life. "I didn't appreciate her insinuation either."

"Says the man playing with my hair." She left the other half of that sentence unspoken, that he was playing with it the way a lover would. That they were acting like infatuated teenagers, stealing glances (his a little more bold and lingering), finishing each other's thoughts. Their banter had warranted raised eyebrows and whispers behind their backs, wondering just who she was to Vincent.

She didn't know either. Not anymore. Not since he had shoved the antidote and keys into her hands and told her to finish what she started.

"Is it a crime? it's quite soft." She could hear the smirk without looking at him.

She stayed silent, but gave a small smile, and shook her head. This...this was peaceful, as odd as it was. She felt his fingers graze her neck, and then her cheek, warm and soft against the slight chill of the evening. Sophia leaned into the touch slightly, only to have her cheek cupped, the difference in their temperature now very apparent.

"You're freezing, how long have you been out here?" 

"Too long, probably. It doesn't feel like that cold." She averted her eyes; she simply hadn't wanted to go back inside. It truly wasn't that cold out, bearable with the sweater she had bundled around her. 

Vincent stepped towards her, dropping his hand only to wrap her in a hug, a surprising gesture from him. One hand came to rest on the back of her head, fingers going back to playing with her hair, the other resting on her back, keeping her near him. This was different for him and she wasn't sure if it was the lack of human touch from jail, or if he had genuinely missed her. 

"What if they see us?" She whispered.

"Their opinion is irrelevant, Sophia." He replied, his hand leaving her hair to raise her chin up to meet his gaze. "Quite frankly, I don't care if they do."

His lips met hers, gently, much to her initial surprise, lingering only a moment. He pulled away slightly, Sophia standing on her toes to close the distance and kiss him again; the arm around her held her closer as his hand left her chin to tangle itself in her hair, her own hands grasping his lapels to give herself purchase. They stayed like that for what felt like forever, thoughts of the chill and the other inhabitants lost. 

* * *

TJ sighed, wondering why he had to be the one to go look for Sophia and Vincent. Everyone had dispersed and gathered again after a few hours of being apart, only to discover Sophia was missing; Vincent had left after more bickering ensued and never returned.

He hated interrupting Vincent during anything-a lesson he had learned the hard way some time ago. Sophia was much the same, he knew, but preferring to silently glare rather than make biting comments. Not something he really needed after today.

Vincent's study was empty, and he hadn't returned to his bedroom. Sophia wasn't in her room, or the solar, where she liked to take breakfast and read. Esteban was of no help.

The library was a likely place to find both of them, they'd prefer to work alone or around each other, rather than with the group. He had a feeling that hasn't changed, even now.

TJ made his way around the space, finding the table Sophia had commandeered devoid of people around it. Odd. She couldn't leave the property....could she?

He glanced towards the balcony overlooking the east lawn and stepped back, realizing they were in no position to even notice him, let alone be interrupted. They deserved to be alone, in his view, but then again he knew both of them better than anyone else downstairs. 

It could wait. For now, at least. 

TJ went back to the group gathered in the dining room, shrugging off the insistence for the other two to be there. 

"Sophia is way ahead on all of this and she's kept Vincent up to date," he started, watching Sarah make a face that said, "oh she did more than that", before continuing, "they'll join us in the morning. Maybe."

"Maybe?" Raphael replied, annoyance crossing his features. "What else could a criminal on probation and a protected witness under self-imposed house arrest have to do?" He didn't realize what he said until it was too late, becoming slightly embarrassed at remembering how Vincent had mentioned Sophia when he had visited in prison, and the way the dark haired man looked at her as she ran through the list of players and events, answering questions. TJ had a feeling Raphael had never seen his rival like that, or even consider him to have emotions. 

The room was silent as TJ shrugged. "I wasn't told and I wasn't in a position to ask. We're in Vincent's house, best not to bite the hand that feeds."

"I'm quite sure-" Sarah started, looking smug, but TJ glared at her.

"And if they are? It's none of our business."

"You're defending the man who blackmailed you?" Sarah gawped.

"A blackmail you had a hand in, don't act so innocent." Raphael snapped. "TJ has a point; they're adults, whatever they want to do is their business. We're at the dead end without Sophia anyway."

"Which is exactly why she should be here-"

"Sarah, drop it, okay?" An American voice broke through the chatter. The investigator sighed, slightly annoyed. "Give them some space. There's plenty of it in a house this big. Let's call it a night and start fresh tomorrow."

* * *

At some point, they had broken off long enough to go back inside, Sophia dazed, her head spinning.

She wanted more, and while Vincent was a man of propriety, there was only so much of his own desire he could hide. As soon as the door was shut, their lips met again, and her hands fell to his chest before wrapping around him under his suit jacket, resting at his waist. His hands found her hips, keeping her to him. A part of her wanted to wait until the others left the house and went back to Paris in two days time; another said she had waited long enough.

They managed to make it to one of the couches, Vincent maneuvering so Sophia was straddling him. It was her turn to play with his hair, she mused, running her fingers through it at the base of his neck.  _ And he thought my hair was soft? _ She thought.

She was just as aroused as he was, and she wondered briefly when the last time she had felt this had been. Certainly not anytime recently. Even if both of them did spend the night together, she doubted either one of them would last terribly long. She mentally rolled her eyes at her thoughts, she should enjoy the present and worry about everything else when that time came. 

Vincent broke the kiss first, resting his forehead against hers as he gave a soft but deep groan. Their chests heaved as they caught their breath, noses brushing each other's. She felt one hand on her back, pressing her to him, the other resting on her hip, seemingly avoiding the gap between her blouse and pants where her skin showed.

"For once, I think patience might be required. At least until they leave." He murmured. "I'm all for making others uncomfortable but I want you all to myself, without the knowing glances." He kissed her again, harder than before, causing her to moan and leaving her dizzy when he pulled away again. He smirked at having gotten such a reaction out of her, capturing her lips again to elicit more. "Especially if you're going to keep doing that." 

She glowered, which only earned a chuckle in response. "If I do, it's your fault." 

"True." He replied, kissing her again before speaking. "Although it's only going to make me want to do it again."

"Am I stopping you?" Sophia's lips returned his smirk, challenging him, one of the few people allowed to do so without fear of death.

He kissed her again, accepting her challenge, as she knew he would. At some point they had shifted to lay down on the couch, their legs tangled, shoes, jacket, and her sweater long forgotten, and Sophia drifting to sleep on Vincent's chest. She couldn't bring herself to move, too tired to make the trek back to her room. And if she didn't move, it meant he couldn't either, making this location far more appealing.

Sunlight trickled into the library, coating everything in the yellow hue of dawn. Vincent blinked the sleep from his eyes, feeling a weight on his chest and...what was his hand tangled in, hair? 

Ah. He smiled softly, Sophia still fast asleep on his chest, her hair a mess from last night. Mostly his handiwork, he noted, but it was an endearing look on her all the same. He relaxed back down onto the pillow as he removed his hand from her hair, instead opting to run his fingers up and down her arm, her skin warm and soft. 

He wasn't sure when, exactly, he had come to care about her, but he knew two years in a cell had done nothing to change it. He was sure it only amplified it, since he was unable to do anything. He hated that, the lack of control over the situation, an inability to provide help, to solve the crisis he saw coming. He had everything in the world, even in that tiny room, but he had never felt more alone. The American had been helpful, yes, but Sophia had spent years doing what had taken Katherine months; her swiftness was what got her murdered, he speculated, not necessarily what she had uncovered. Speed meant carelessness, and such a situation needed care.

He nuzzled her hair, which smelled faintly of raspberry and vanilla, and he sighed softly. The gesture was enough to wake her and he found himself staring into light blue eyes, still half-lidded with sleep. 

"Is it selfish of me to not move?" She shifted to lay facing him, resting her chin on his chest. 

He controlled his breathing at the movement, savoring the warmth against him, saving whatever viciously lovely thoughts he had about pulling her up and pinning her down on the opposite side of the couch for later. He had distracted thoughts for the better part of the morning, her thigh resting between his legs certainly not helping matters.

"Only as selfish as something I would do."

She hummed, closing her eyes against the sunlight and inadvertently moving the leg resting between his; he knew her to be fidgety in the morning and while the gesture was frustrating, he knew it was innocent. "You've been thinking. I know that look."

He buried his nose in her hair again, remembering that she had smelled differently that night in the catacombs after the investigator had tried and failed to seduce him. She had smelled of coffee, vaguely of chocolate; he had interrupted a day off filled with baking, if he recalled correctly. 

He never did get to try what she had been making, getting tied up in sleepless nights in his lab and the press conference that had been his downfall. 

"I was considering that it wasn't what Katherine uncovered that lead to her demise, but rather, her haste."

"She would have found what she was looking for and they still would have killed her."

"How fatalistic of you."

"I've been lucky. Mostly because I had better resources. Kat....not so much."

Was that a hint of...guilt in her voice? Did she feel responsible for the events of the past few months? Understandable, Vincent mused. If she's able to avoid them, why couldn't Katherine?

"You know you had nothing to do with it, don't you?"

"I do, but all the same, I can't help but feel...not relieved, but...it easily could have been me, had I gotten careless."

"As if I'd have let that happen."

"There are some things out of your control, Vincent." 

He let out a breath through his nose in reply. She would say such a thing knowing he was never able to bring himself to control her the way he did others. He nuzzled her hair, not liking the knowledge that she had been left to her own devices while he played king of the castle.

Sophia nestled into his chest, falling back asleep against him, her breathing slowing to an easy pace. 

He could get used to this.


	2. Detour (S)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophia-centric. A ride home, with a detour, circa 2010.

She could feel the eyes on her as she trekked through Penn Station, suitcase trailing behind her like a lonesome child. The sunglasses did nothing to hide either her identity or her blotchy cheeks. It was already on Twitter. She’d caught a few people raising their cameras when they put two and two together; wasn’t there some major dinner tonight for the political elite and eager? Wasn’t she…?

She had too many messages to look at. Too many missed phone calls. A lot of them she recognized as belonging to reporters and journalists. She was a source, after all, and if they heard that she was, in fact, seen leaving the Kennedy Center without Richard far too early...

A few hours prior, she’d boarded the Amtrak train in a full evening gown, looking out of place among the seasoned travelers in their comfortable clothes and sneakers. She didn’t care. She just wanted out of DC, out of Maryland. She wanted  _ home.  _ She wanted the slight tang of sawdust that always seemed to linger on her father’s clothes, she wanted her mother’s quiet humming, her perfume mingling with whatever paint thinner she was working with. She wanted her childhood bedroom, the familiar furniture, the optimism that seemed to linger in her posted reminders and posters of Starry Night and The Kiss.

She managed to find a taxi willing to head out of the city and she settled into the backseat, hunkering down into her pea coat. Sophia didn’t mind the loud music, even found herself bumping her head to the beat in an attempt to shake the anxiety that seemed to be nipping at her blistered heels. She had made a mistake. She shouldn’t have left. How was she supposed to know Richard had been cheating? She was a horrible fiance. A failure at relationships for not realizing something was wrong. She should have done more. 

He was her world. She had nothing without him. What had she been thinking? Why couldn’t he just have his affair and they get married anyway? She would never have to be intimate with him again, deal with him. As long as they never dealt with one another, what did it matter?

If he wasn’t around, he couldn’t belittle her and her books and her love of dead artists and topics. He couldn’t rip things from her hands and throw them over his shoulder and insist that her attention be on him instead. He couldn’t remind her that she needed to do her duty as the future wife of a senator and provide a good example. She couldn’t be a trophy wife if her nose was stuck in a book or she was busy studying a painting by someone long since forgotten.

If he wasn’t around, he couldn’t grab the back of her neck like a dog to remind her to smile. Twist her wrist when she didn’t speak. Demand that she change because she didn’t look demure enough. He couldn’t use her body without asking, without bothering to make sure her body was prepared properly. 

She didn’t do enough but everything he said seemed to contradict itself. And for all of her effort, he had been seeing someone else for almost two years of their engagement…

How had she been so blind?

She removed her sunglasses and wiped away the tears she’d put off for hours, the ones she’d tilted her head back to keep from spilling out, and pretended to doze off in the process. Her throat tightened and she told herself to calm down, that she needed to not lose it for a few more hours. Until she was greeted by the hefty Belgian Sheepdog their neighbor owned. Until she was safe behind a door again.

Sophia sniffled, embarrassed when the driver’s eyes met hers. She quickly looked away, wiping at her cheek with a coat sleeve like a child, and uttered an apology. He shook his head and offered a box of tissues.

“I can turn the radio up, if you want. Drown out any crying. You look like you need it.”

She took the box and felt a shaky smile dance across her face. 

“Sure. And I hate to ask, but would you be willing to stop on the GW, just for a minute? I’ll pay extra.”

“Not if you plan to jump.”

“I don’t, I swear,” she said hastily, her words warped from the overwhelming need to release  _ something.  _ “Just to throw something into the river. Not myself. Just my shoes.”

“You are...what’s the word...frivolous. The shoes seem perfectly fine.”

“They’re from someone I’d rather never think about again.”

Even she had a limit on how high or sharp her heels could be. These things made her feel like a giraffe, and not in an elegant way. They hurt. And that was the point of them. 

The driver managed to find a spot and Sophia hopped over the railing with a final warning echoing over the sound of traffic. The shoes dangled from her fingers, clacking together. 

She inhaled deeply. She’d missed that. The smell of exhaust, grit, and garbage. New York was still dirty, regardless of any clean up since the 90’s. The air was crisp and the visibility clear, a rarity. Behind her, the city was just beginning to wake up; in front of her, the Jersey Palisades rose in sheets and she could see the Cloisters and then further north, Yonkers, off on the other side of the river.

“Miss, hurry up! I don’t need a ticket!”

She drew her arm up and over and hurled the stupid things over the barrier. They didn’t arc very far but she watched as they fell and splashed into the Hudson, to settle with the disgusting remnants of PHPs, forever knocked around in the water by a force far more powerful than Richard could ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another piece I've had sitting in a file for a while. Not wholly realistic and while I touch on some of her experiences prior, they're not the focus.


	3. Decision (S)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophia-centric, circa 2013. The night after she agrees to Vincent's terms.

Her subway ride home from the auction house was a blur of stairs, card swipes, and even more garbled announcements on the loudspeaker. She could still see the vase tumbling to the floor, hear the shattering porcelain, feel Vincent’s hand on her arm as he pulled her out of the way. 

She hadn’t signed anything yet but there was no getting out of this. It wouldn’t be that bad, right? Everyone who ever accomplished something great went through hardship to get there. This would be hers. 

She _knew_ the kind of job he laid out for her. She got her current position because she’d sold paintings with passion and a willingness to listen, to learn who to approach and when. Her graduate program and her work had been a hardship and living in New York on her own was a trial by fire after moving back from DC.

It wouldn’t be easy. A position anyone would _kill_ for, handed to her as a _favor_. 

For a debt she couldn’t repay.

The train finally came and she settled next to the door, planting her feet in such a way that she didn’t need to do anything other than grip the bar next to her. 

A talent only tourists appreciated; heels over grates were one thing but standing and barely being jolted around in subway cars older than her was something else entirely.

Hadn’t she learned better than to be so severely indebted to someone? She hated her credit cards for the very same reason; owing someone could easily turn into barely doggy paddling to a shoreline.

Yet…

The promise that lingered at the end of it all…

Finally, the train reached Sunnyside and she filed out to the platform and down the stairs, happy to only have a few more blocks between herself and her bed.

Hadn’t this been what she was working for all along? A chance to make something of herself, _for_ herself?

Arthur’s words came back to her, his warning of predation, of strings, of a viciousness few truly saw. He wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true. Yet it wouldn’t have been far-fetched for him to want to protect his employees and prevent poaching, either. 

There was no choice in this, she thought, sliding her building key into the door. She could stay here, live quietly, be in the background, write on the side, and forever be the personal assistant; or, she could go to Paris, see if Vincent’s words were what he claimed, and get out of the country that seemed to finally stop pitying her a little too late. 

She could put her education to use for something greater than herself.

If people were going to remember her, it was going to be on her terms.


	4. Of All The...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the restaurants in Paris, they had to end up at the same place…
> 
> Slight AU: The Essence never happened but the Flood still occurred; Sophia interfered as she was meant to and helped save Paris.

The elevator bell gave a soft ring as they reached the top floor, the doors silently sliding open to the reception area. The lighting was low, the ceiling resembling a starry night while stripes of lights ran along the edge of the room, lending a much more intimate feeling than a public restaurant. 

Or, well, as public as it could be with a three-month waiting list.

Sophia gazed around in awe, blue eyes wide as she took in the decor and the ambiance. It had been so long since they’d been out, properly; between work and wedding planning, there never seemed to be enough time as of late. 

She even came prepared to exchange her heels for flats. Dancing was a must, if the absent finger-tapping and low humming was anything to go by. The music was live, carried throughout the space by very well-planned acoustics, and as she glanced up at him as he gave the name, she caught a spark of appreciation in his roaming eye. It was rare that he gave such a look to anything without at least seeing the menu.

As they were guided to their table, Vincent’s hand stiffened in hers, and it took her a second to realize _why._

A head of ginger hair caught her attention and as they drew closer, it was impossible to miss the shared utterance of disbelief and annoyance. 

Raphael Laurent, of all people, was seated at the nearby table. The only _free_ table in the entire restaurant. Across from the other business owner was a blonde woman, looking acutely lost but interested in the sudden shift in their conversation.

Vincent looked at Sophia, one eyebrow raised in silent appeal to her judgment, a breath held in his chest. She could tell he was trying to keep his ego in check for once, not given how public their relationship was, but because it was something she asked of him. He didn’t need to flaunt and he didn’t need to posture; there was nothing to prove, no need to constantly build himself up, when she already knew the man behind the persona.

Sophia gave a quick glance to Raphael, and then the woman, and before the silence grew awkward, she smiled and threw her hand out to the only other female in the immediate space. She didn’t spend years selling paintings and negotiating for nothing, after all.

“Hi, I’m Sophia.”

“Audrey.” The blonde looked taken aback for a second before reaching out and returning the handshake. “Your dress is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Sophia smiled, smoothing the fabric gently before turning to Vincent, eyes hopeful.

“Do you have any other tables?” Vincent asked their maitre’d, who was in turn waiting patiently for them to decide if they were sitting.

“I’m sorry, _monsieur_. We’re booked through the end of the year. Will this table be alright?”

There was a silent threat in the air; others would gladly take their reservation if they left. Sophia looked at Vincent, his mouth a thin line as his hand adjusted the already-perfect knot at his throat. His brow creased as he broke Sophia’s gaze and turned his attention to the too-silent Raphael.

“I’m not certain. Will it be, Monsieur Laurent?”

There was a storm behind Raphael’s deep blue eyes and as vicious as Sophia knew their rivalry was rumored to be, she tried her best to overlook the slight disgust that seemed to cross the other’s face when he looked at her. As if she was diseased for being with Vincent. The Editor in Chief deferred to the woman across from him, who nodded and smiled brightly.

“It’ll be fine,” he acquiesced, more to Audrey than anyone else.

“Do you two know one another?” their server asked.

“Oh, they have warring media companies,” Sophia waved her hand before turning back to Vincent. “I’ll trust your palate for wine, as always.”

She sat down and settled into her seat next to Raphael, trying to ignore the blatant stare-down between the two men. Vincent unbuttoned his suit jacket as he sat down, rattling off wine selections to the attentive waiter, before he returned his attention on the woman in front of him. 

_There_. _Was that so hard?_ She wanted to ask.

She and Vincent spoke quietly as they waited for their drinks, her foot traveling to his ankle every time his gaze went to his left. It was met with a smoldering stare every time, a cross between demanding to know why he needed to suffer and a reminder that they still had a long car ride home that he intended to make the most out of. His attention was split between her and trying to posture, although he was intent on not taking the first verbal jab; his eyes only seemed to trail away when Raphael said something he would normally take interest in, baiting him.

Drinks were served at almost the same time and Sophia watched as a judgmental frown tugged at her fiance’s mouth when Raphael’s wine was presented and left on the table. It was a more popular brand for a white wine, ordinary by Vincent’s standards. Certainly not something he would ever order and, knowing the man in front of her, not something he would ever order in front of the woman he clearly held a torch for. 

“Something you want to say, Karm?” Raphael asked, catching the green-eyed gaze of disapproval.

“No, nothing, Laurent. Enjoy your Sauvignon.”

Sophia nudged Vincent under the table, pulling his attention back to her, and throwing Audrey an apologetic smile.

“So, did I tell you about the expansion proposal? My investors seem to think Rio is the next big spot for the magazine.”

“Really? That’s awesome, Raphael! I know the meeting was super stressful.”

Vincent took a long sip of his red wine, a 1947 Cheval Blanc, before he casually said, “We finally got commercial airtime in Italy. Sure, it’s still within the EU, but it’s a good pathway to other international clients. Especially those with deep pockets.”

Sophia gave a tight smile, having caught on to the little game quickly. “Ah. Okay,” she turned her head to Raphael, and then back to Vincent. “So this is happening.”

So much for avoiding a pissing contest.

“I’m simply saying global success cannot be measured in literal kilometres.”

“The more distance anyone can put between themselves and you, the better,” Raphael said dryly. 

“Yes, well, it was simply me, myself, and I who built their legacy from the ground up. I didn’t need family money, just the right connections.”

Sophia inhaled sharply. “Okay, are you two done seeing whose ego is bigger?”

She glanced between the two men, her politeness edged with a razor sharp lack of tolerance for the boyish nonsense. Both Raphael and Vincent avoided her gaze and Vincent sat straighter in his seat before brushing nonexistent lint from his lapel. Even scolded, he preened, soothing his damaged pride.

“So, you’re American?” Audrey interrupted the growing silence, her attention sudden and a little too perky for Sophia’s liking.

She only hoped that, for once, her past stayed out of the conversation. Something hard to do, given the political division of her home country lately.

“Yeah, east coast.”

“I’m from Phoenix. I just saw snow for the first time in my life. And I think I’ve seen more rain in the past three months than I have in my entire life.”

Sophia gave a small laugh into her wine glass. “Snow’s pretty until the plows come and you spend the whole day helping clear the driveway. I drove our plow into a neighbor’s mailbox when I was a teenager, I’ll take milder weather.”

Vincent smiled, remembering the story she told him one late evening, but Raphael laughed, a little more loudly than appropriate; the smile disappeared, replaced with a warning glare.

“Let’s push the tables together?” Audrey suggested, grey eyes darting around to the other three for approval. 

“It’s not a good-”

“There’s no reason-”

Sophia’s voice cut through the hesitation and posturing egos. “ _T_ _hat_ is a great idea.”

She signaled to the maitre’d on duty and requested their tables be combined. Vincent cleared his throat and tightened his tie, giving a warning glance to the woman in front of him as Raphael rolled his eyes and looked off to the side. Both men picked up their menus in mutual agreement to ignore one another as their dinner partners continued to talk.

“So, Audrey, what do you do?” Sophia shifted in her seat to angle herself towards the other woman, giving her full attention.

“I’m an investigative journalist,” Audrey gestured to Raphael. “I work for _City of Love_ on a culture column for now but my specialty is uncovering the things people don’t necessarily want to know.”

In the back of her head, Sophia wondered if she was one of the numerous writers who took it upon themselves to weave a narrative around her and Richard. If she was, Audrey said nothing, for which the other woman was nothing but thankful.

“I already know what you two do. Media mogul responsible for booming new projects and the art savior of Paris.”

Raphael lowered his menu, unable to resist a jab at the other man. “You made a lot of money exploiting both sides of the media outlets and pitting people against each other.”

“You’re just jealous I took an opportunity before you could get your hands on it," Vincent replied before taking another sip of his wine, waiting for the next blow.

“I know there’s one thing I’m absolutely _itching_ to get my hands on.”

“ _Why_ , Raphael, I’m quite flattered but you’re the furthest thing from my type.”

Audrey’s hand shot out and caught Raphael’s with a soft admonishment of him by a nickname. 

Before anything else could get out of the hand, their server came with an order of fondue, ready to begin taking orders. Audrey’s was the most complex, followed by Vincent’s, but the waiter never pulled out a pad and despite a remark from Vincent, never wrote anything down. 

“I did not plan this evening to test efficiency but they’ll certainly get something wrong,” Vincent remarked, with a nudge from Sophia under the table.

“Excuse me for a minute, I have to freshen up.” Audrey rose from her seat with a reassuring smile to Raphael. 

Me too, I’ll join you,” Sophia stood and slid her tiny purse across her shoulder.

“Don’t leave me alone with him,” Raphael hissed.

“No, _ma cherie_ , there’s no need to…”

Their requests fell on deaf ears as the two women continued chatting as they walked away. Both men pointedly looked anywhere else except each other for a moment before Raphael helped himself to a long fork. He stabbed a piece of bread, dipped it into the cheese, and without bothering to check, popped it into his mouth. Vincent chuckled as he watched the other man struggle with the heat before muttering about the flavor and taking a swig of wine, his eyes remaining on the direction his fiance went in.

The silence lasted for all of a few seconds until Vincent could no longer help himself and he said, “I never expected you to be in a place like this.”

“You’re not the only one who can afford to eat at fancy places, Karm.”

“ _Mon dieu,_ what _is_ your problem?”

“Asks the man who has made it his sole purpose to bring me misery all because of something out of my control.”

“As if you’ve been a Saint all these years.”

“I’m just trying to run a business, Karm. Same as you. Except I genuinely care about what my money goes towards.”

“I wasn’t aware you were in the business of gatekeeping where I can and cannot put my money.”

“ _That_ exposure wasn’t me. I have no idea who leaked those documents.”

“And the annoying paparazzi who ruined my evening plans when I was just about to propose?”

Vincent could look past the tax record leaks and the internal rumors of who said and did what. There was nothing a loyal team of advisers couldn’t fix inside the company. But when it came to his private life, having intimate moments broken by the snap of a camera, anything involving _Sophia_? 

It crossed a line. He kept his private life quiet, he deserved some kind of peace.

“No, that was all me,” Raphael quipped, giving a small grin before taking a quick sip of wine. “Clearly you didn’t have a problem finding alternative plans.”

Vincent picked up a long fork, pointing it in Raphael’s direction for emphasis. “Do tell Ms. Zembe that if she ever storms into my office again with claims of extortion she cannot substantiate, I won’t hesitate to have escorted publicly from the premises.”

He then plucked a piece of bread from the selection around the pot and dipped it carefully, watching the consistency. As soon as the piece touched his tongue, he knew exactly what Raphael meant about the flavor. The wine used was not a dry Riesling and they hadn’t bothered to add lemon juice to compensate for it. 

Confusion danced over Raphael’s face. “Wait, Sarah did _what_?”

“She came into my office a couple of years ago in the middle of a call and accused me of extortion, coercion, and a few other things, with no evidence to prove herself. Did she not tell you?”

“She broke off our engagement years ago, around the same time, I think. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over, Karm. Just like...what’s her name again, Alia?”

“Alia Santa Bosque del Medina.”

Before the conversation could go elsewhere, a flurry of laughter interrupted both of them as Sophia and Audrey returned.

“Did we miss anything?” Audrey asked, a smile darting across her face.

Both men locked eyes before a silent agreement was reached.

“No,” Vincent said, shaking his head. 

“Just catching up,” Raphael said, picking up another piece of bread, dipping it, and then offering it to Audrey.

The journalist took it but didn’t eat it just yet, letting it cool. “We were just talking about what it’s like living so far from home. Have either of you had to be away for an extended period of time? Your jobs are...fairly similar.”

She popped the cheesy bread into her mouth, waiting for someone else to fill the silence.

No one had to; their waiter quietly interrupted to place their meals in front of them. Vincent’s careful eye scanned his dish and then the rest of the table, his brow creasing when he looked back down to cut into his steak. 

Sophia didn’t miss the twitch of his lip as he inspected the meat to find it not anything close to the rare color he preferred. A shame; it was a waste of a good filet.

If he was alone, with no one else to think about, he would have treated the staff here as he did his orchestra. Harshly and without mercy. He would wave it off as theatrical flair. 

However, he was _not_ alone. And to create a scene in front of his partner, let alone his rival, was in very poor taste; it was below him, so Sophia hoped.

“I asked for rare, please take this back,” Vincent said quietly, his jaw clenching at the inconvenience.

He sighed as the waiter apologized profusely and walked back towards the kitchen with no other stops along the way.

“They would, of course, get _something_ wrong. The fondue recipe is unbalanced.”

“I thought it was just me,” Raphael threw a suspicious look across the tables. “If you can’t trust a place by its fondue-”

“It’s utter rubbish and you should never return.” Vincent’s eyes narrowed, assessing the man diagonally from him.

Impossible. Improbable. 

Before either of the men could say anything further, Audrey took a sip from her glass before she turned towards Sophia and asked, “You’re from New York, aren’t you?”

The other American shifted in her seat, throwing an awkward smile as she stabbed a piece of shrimp, perfectly grilled.

“New York by way of New Jersey. Is it still that obvious?”

“There’s a...hardness to the way you speak. I only heard that from New York journalists.”

“I find it efficient,” Vincent chimed in. “It’s rare for people, especially in Paris, to speak directly.”

“You would know,” Raphael remarked, sarcasm tangling around the syllables like a snake.

Vincent opened him mouth to say something but Sophia gave him a glance under her lashes as she took a bite of her food. It disarmed Vincent enough for his expression to shift to something almost gentle, a rarity in public for him.

She didn’t miss the audible gag that came from her right, from Raphael, but ignored it. He wasn’t the only one who refused to understand why or how someone as vile as Vincent Karm was in a relationship, let alone engaged. But that was fine. Respect and a willingness to understand, while tied, didn’t need to coexist for one night.

Dinner was, other than the occasional comment, a peaceful affair. Tolerable for some, enjoyable for others. The only thing keeping Vincent calm, Sophia realized, was his attention to the music, a distraction to the fact that he was seated so close to someone he absolutely loathed. When they finished eating, she wordlessly rose from her seat and guided him to the section reserved for dancing, already fairly packed.

“A very unexpected turn of events,” Vincent murmured, his head turning back to their table before she placed a hand on his cheek and turned his attention back to her.

She wasn’t entirely sure what the musician was playing, but it was slow enough for her to focus on their conversation without being thrown off-beat. 

“But you didn’t snap your fingers and make everyone vanish in fear. You could have.”

“It meant something to you to talk to someone from home, relatively speaking. Why would I take that from you?”

“Because this evening was _ours_ and it was meticulously planned. Usually you’re more...up in arms when things go awry.”

“I’m attempting to look at the brighter side of having to look at Raphael’s drab excuse of a sports coat throughout the evening. We still had dinner. We’re still dancing…”

Vincent’s hand pressed into her lower back, drawing her closer. His nose brushed her hairline, his breath tickling the hairs that refused to stay put in her loose attempt to pull her hair back.

“And the night is still _very_ young.”

Sophia pushed herself up a little further up onto her toes and pressed a kiss to Vincent’s lips, brief but warm, filled with a promise she intended to keep. She pulled back to look up at him, her lips curled into a playful smile. “Ambitious, aren’t we?”

Vincent’s smirk tugged at his lips, a gleam of mischief unmistakable as he looked down at her.

“Always.”

They continued to sway to the rhythm set for them, lost to everything but each other, oblivious until it came time to leave. As they reached the ground floor and stepped out to the valet, their fellow dinner guests were already waiting for their car. Eugene was stuck in the line of cars coming and going, waiting to reach the curb; the distinct headlights were a dead give away for their vehicle. 

Sophia and Audrey fell into a quiet conversation, exchanging numbers and other information-it would be nice to, for once, have someone who understood weird references and be homesick with, when the mood struck. Although she met plenty of people from various walks of life, it was refreshing to meet someone close in age.

Raphael pointedly ignored Vincent until it became unbearably awkward, even for him, and he felt the need to speak.

“This was...tolerable.”

“Likewise.”

“Let’s agree to one thing?”

Vincent looked towards his left, watching as Eugene crept closer. He straightened his tie for he gave a small grin and said, “Is that a proposition, Monsieur Laurent?”

Raphael rolled his eyes before glaring so hard he could have broken his glasses with the ire he aimed at the other man.

“This never happens again. I might actually start to do more than tolerate you.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s in the realm of possibility.”

Vincent almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Eugene finally pull up to the curb. About time. Sophia was wrapping up her conversation, even going so far as to offer a friendly hug to the other American. All in all, a perfect excuse to get as far away from the other man as possible.

He reached for the back door before Eugene could even step out of the driver’s seat, Sophia following his cue with only a quick, questioning but appreciative glance up at him. As he began rounding the car, this time Eugene dutifully stepped out to grab the door before he even had a chance, and Vincent turned back to Raphael.

“We both know that even if that was the case, you would never be able to admit it. Even to yourself.”

At the mention of his lack of ability to articulate his emotions coherently, Raphael seethed. The car door shut and by the time the magazine owner had words on his lips, the vehicle was already out of shouting distance, leaving the anomaly of an evening behind its occupants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily influenced by a very specific scene of the Netflix series, Cobra Kai. This would have worked a little better within the main universe (with the MC in the position of having dated both Raphael and Vincent), but I couldn't get the other half of the equation to work so I stuck it here instead.


	5. I. Of Past and Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk through Montmartre, in which the past and present collide for a single moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially the start of the 'sequel'.

He was quiet that morning.

Although, in hindsight, he was _always_ quieter on this particular day. Sophia just never knew why.

Until she was privy to his day-calendar and living with her fiancé meant overhearing conversations she pretended not to.

"Ensure my meetings _stay_ cancelled. I'm unreachable, they should be aware of that by now."

A single _P_ adorned the date in his calendars. Of all the things she _did_ have access to prior to living with him, the anniversary of his previous lover's death wasn't one of them.

The skin under her rings itched, as if the very metal on her hand protested at his melancholy. Being his partner meant helping him carry his baggage, as he did for her. She quelled the wave of jealousy lapping at her heels, silently reminding herself that this wasn't about living in the past. This mattered to him. And it didn't mean their relationship was lessened by acknowledging his loss.

Eugene dropped them off at Sacré-Cœur, where he was told to wait until they returned. Vincent slid a pair of sunglasses on before stepping out, hiding his eyes, The Maybach felt foreign after so many months in another car, and it caught more attention than she was used to. Press was one thing as of late; being recognized on the steps of a famous basilica was another.

Walking was preferable, he told her. It meant as few people as possible knowing, exactly, where he was going. He held her hand a little tighter than normal as they walked through Montmarte, passing chatty groups of tourists coming from the Wall of Love and other famous spots in the arrondissement.

Despite the sun, the November chill shot through her coat, a replacement of her favorite one ruined from the catacombs, and right into her bones. She peered up at Vincent as they stopped suddenly in front of a flower shop, the vendor, an older woman with white hair tied back with a scarf, arranging blooms meticulously. Paris was filled with such places, although during this time of year, the vibrant colors looked brighter than usual compared to the grey that seemed to settle in places as fall began to give way to winter.

Vincent's hand left hers long enough to greet the vendor and ask something Sophia hadn't been able to translate. The other woman disappeared inside the shop as Vincent peered at the flowers already set out; eye-catching and bright and clearly grown with love. With a gentleness she rarely saw in public, he pulled out four different singular roses: orange, yellow, red, and pink. They were thoroughly inspected until the vendor returned with a rose of such a deep red that it bordered on purple. Money was exchanged, the flowers were wrapped, and they continued on their journey, Sophia's arm around his elbow, tucked close to his side.

"She knows me by face at this point," Vincent explained when they were a few blocks away. "She'll be open even on days she normally isn't, at least until I arrive."

Sophia pressed her head against his arm for a moment. Words felt strange on a day like today and anything that would come from her lips would feel…flat. After all, nothing she could say would ever take away the pain of losing someone he deeply cared for.

As they trekked through the narrow walkways of the graveyard, passing ornate mausoleums and stunning sculptures, Vincent must have read her mind, because he said, "Silence from you is always alarming, _ma cherie_. You don't have to come if you're not-"

She cut him off before he could get another word in.

"He was special and meant something to you. Sometimes, silence is just…better than platitudes. I'm here to help carry the weight of loss, not cheer you up from the sidelines."

She heard him murmur something into her hair as he pressed another kiss to the crown of her head, their current position not allowing for much else.

They arrived at a row of grey slabs in a more secluded part of the graveyard, some aged and covered in spots of moss but no less tended to than the newer counterparts. The small, low headstone read a name she never head in its completion before. She always knew the death was unexpected but it never occurred to her how _young_ Paul had been. If she did the math right, he was twenty-two at the time of his passing in 2001.

The things she didn't even begin to understand at that age, let alone accomplish…to have decades snuffed out so quickly…

The stone bore a simple cross, encircled with a quote in Latin, underneath which sat a beautifully carved lily.

"His family used one of his drawings for the second engraving," Vincent whispered. "A drawing he made on one of the few outings that was just the two of us. I thought it was a gesture of kindness at first until the funeral when I saw the cross, too. They tolerated many things but they would never acknowledge their son was _different_."

The symbolism between gravestone markers and paintings weren't all that dissimilar. Sophia wracked her brain as they brushed off the stone, cold and smooth underneath her hands, and her heart broke as she realized what, precisely the stone symbolized to those who knew the deceased.

Purity. Chastity. Innocence. The lily was often used in the Victorian era, the symbol of the return of a soul to innocence at the time of death.

They not only considered their son to be faithless but corrupted, seeking to provide for his soul in the afterlife. She wanted to think it was well-intentioned.

"I like to think you two would have gotten along quite well," Vincent whispered. "But perhaps that's biased of me. I love both of you-for different reasons, in slightly different ways, but I love you both nonetheless."

His words pricked something in her, something she long pushed away after she finally healed from Richard. It didn't hurt so much as wriggle under her skin. She could never truly understand that feeling, of caring for two people at the same time, of cherishing them on the same level. Perhaps it was because her only experience was painful and based on lies and disregard and neglect. A personal hurdle she might never be able to entirely overcome but nonetheless recognized; although she knew it didn't diminish their relationship, it was hard to feel a certain way about a hypothetical situation that, from her experience, was anything but pleasant.

Vincent pulled out one flower at a time, laying them out one crossed on top of the other, until they formed a cross with a flower at each point. The colors were deliberate, as much as the symbols on the headstone; red for love, yellow for friendship, pink for elegance and grace, orange for passion and enthusiasm. All of the qualities she only imagined that Paul was loved for.

"He found comfort in faith, despite everything, and reconciled with the dissonance. I couldn't. Faith never did much for me."

He still held one flower, the deep red at the bloom's base fading into a burgundy that rivaled the merlot she knew to be a favorite of his with dinner. Vincent looked down at it before turning to Sophia and presenting it.

What was it she learned about flower colors so long ago? The deeper the hue, the stronger the emotion?

"Why burgundy?" Sophia murmured, taking the bloom from him carefully to avoid the thorns poking through the paper, fingers grazing the soft petals as she examined the flower for a moment.

"Nowadays, it tends to mean unconscious beauty, stunning in a way that's not immediately obvious; the Victorian meaning was deep devotion. I'm a proponent of both."

Sophia held the flower close, its scent strong and almost as radiant as its color. Vincent took her other hand in both of his, casting a glance at the stone before directing his gaze back at her. She hadn't realized how cold her hands were until his warm breath hit her skin.

"He might be my past but you are my future, for as long as you'll have me," he whispered, raising her hand to his lips.

"I can't imagine anything I'd like more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul is a minor thread that I've never been quite able to shake ever since Vincent's side-story and their relationship is a concept that, truthfully, would have given far more depth to motivations in the first season. It's already been kind of established as a theme, of sorts, in how Vincent handles anything happening to Sophia, and it's one that will be recurring (if my rough drafts are anything to go by).


	6. II. Thanksgiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive, I swear. Life ahas been incredibly busy these past few weeks between work and personal things and I haven't had much time to write. 
> 
> This is a short fluffy piece, November 2017. It's nonsense. Enjoy!

Vincent glanced around the kitchen, pushing out the flurry of English in the other room as his fiancé discussed something regarding table arrangements. Or extensions. He wasn’t sure anymore and fleeting thought that this very situation was the reason they hired a wedding planner to begin with.

Surely a Thanksgiving dinner couldn’t be _that_ much of an ordeal?

He’d asking that this morning and the incredulous look Sophia gave him that morning when he caught her reminiscing out the bedroom window came to mind and he wondered if she was, in fact, correct.

“There’s a reason I’ve been putting it off and why I never asked to return home all these years. Especially now.”

They never talked politics but it was impossible to miss the lawns with warring signs, each neighbor promoting opposing parties. 

Neither of them _wanted_ to be here or even wanted to make the trip to New York on the cusp of the holiday season. The only reason they were was because the wedding gown she adored was only available in a Manhattan boutique and the single appointment she could get months ago was the week of Thanksgiving. 

And as expected, they were questioned about their holiday plans as soon as Sophia finished asking if her mother would meet her in the city to go with her.

How could they say no when Sophia had been putting it off for so long? To come for a dress and not see family on one of the few holidays a year about that very thing? Never mind the fact that they were engaged and their planner sent out the save-the-date cards…

Vincent, as much as he hated social convention, also knew it was a necessary task. He got along with her parents, more than she ever expected him to, which made it at least tolerable. 

Guilt would otherwise eat at Sophia their entire eight-hour flight home if they didn’t go.

And so here he was, staring at a sheet pan, wondering just what he was supposed to do with this blue can of…false croissants in his hand.

Which was _after_ his soon-to-be father-in-law took one look at Vincent’s face and pulled out said elongated can from the fridge once his wife returned to…whatever she was doing in the dining room. Vincent was soon abandoned, however, once the other man was roped into grabbing something for the table called a ‘leaf’.

He wasn’t _completely_ clueless. After all, he was Vincent Karm, business extraordinaire, founder of a major media conglomerate, cunning enough to escape the French police (for a time). He wouldn’t be bested by a can of bread.

Squinting, he checked the instructions-curse the Americans and their use of Fahrenheit-and made sure the oven not in use for the turkey was set to the correct temperature. So far, so good. 

Now…how did he open the can?

 _This is absurd_ , he thought, stealthily scavenging through various kitchen drawers. _Canned bread. Canned_ croissants _, no less_. _Merde, it’s an absolute insult…_

“Ah-ha,” Vincent uttered triumphantly, pulling out a can opener. “Now let’s see…”

It had been a while but he still remembered how to use the handheld appliance. He set the edge of the can between the two round blades, squeezed the handle until it clicked and then began rotating the key on the side. There. That wasn’t…

There was a sudden pop and he dropped both the can opener and the metal tube onto the counter in shock.

 _No one_ said the can would _explode._ It’s not like this endeavor could get any worse…

“Hey, everything okay?”

The sight of his fiancé rounding the corner and entering the kitchen, slightly frazzled herself, made the blood run from his face and straight to his ears. He could _feel_ the heat radiating on the sides of his face.”

“I…cannot open the rolls. Wouldn’t fresh _pâtisseries_ be preferable?”

“The only bakery around here with decent croissants was slammed when my dad left to extra stuffing…wait…did you…”

Sophia’s eyes finally fell to the counter, where a slightly deformed lump of dough stuck out of a partially opened Pillsbury can, the can opener not far from it. At first, shock registered across her face before she began shaking with laughter as she tried to stifle her amusement.

Well, at least someone thought his conundrum was funny.

“You used _a can opener_?”

Vincent frowned and the sound he loved so much, one he hadn’t heard in years, finally stopped. He gestured to the tube. “It’s a can. How else would I do so?”

Sophia reached across the kitchen island and grabbed the can, holding it up to show the red tab on the side before she pulled at the wrapping. “Usually pulling on this will release the seal and pop it open. Other times…”

She concentrated, finding the seam of the tube with her thumb before smacking the can against the edge of the counter. It opened with a much smaller pop and she presented it back to him. 

“It just takes brute force. Try it with the other one.”

“There’s _more_ of these abominations?” Vincent hissed.

Sophia pulled out another tube from the fridge. She took back the opened can and began removing the buttery dough as Vincent squinted, looking for the red tab.

“So, I just pull this, and it should pop?”

“ _Oui_. And if it doesn’t, smack it on the lip of the counter like I did.”

He was never doing this again. Eugene was banned from ever even touching canned bread and the next time this happened, he was shipping over fresh bread and pastries to avoid this fiasco.

Vincent unpeeled the wrapping and, of course, the can refused to budge. He looked for the seam and, taking a deep breath, smashed the cannister into the lip of the counter. The pop that came this time was a lot louder and despite having been told, it took him off guard and he almost dropped it. 

“ _Merde_ , I’m never touching these again.”

Sophia gestured for him to hand over the can and he did so gladly. She made quick work of the second tray and popped both into the oven and set the timer. He watched as she washed her hands, ridding them of the oily butter that kept them from sticking to one another too much.

“There. Now, you’re free. I think my mom wanted to ask your opinion on wine glasses, she wants to do the bottles you sent justice.”

“A topic I’m much better suited for anyway.”

“Well…not today.”

The look in her eyes was playful but dangerous; she was, however, correct. He was told that dinner was an informal affair and as such, abandoned most of his usual three-piece suit altogether. Vincent gave her a warning look as he stepped next to her, taking her spot as she reached for a towel to dry her hands.

She opened her mouth to speak in English and then slipped into French as she caught sight of her father passing through.

“Thank you for being willing to help. They never expect anything in return for what they do, it’s who they are. But the least I can do is repay that with respect and make myself useful. It means a lot that you’re here.”

Vincent pressed his nose to the top of her head. “ _Dévoué comme toujours_ _.”_


	7. III. Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 2017.

“So, this is it?  _ The _ dress?”

The last time Sophia tried this on, her mother had accompanied her to the Manhattan boutique and watched as she was pinned into the dress. 

Audrey Kingsley was perched on the edge of her seat, complimentary espresso in hand as she spoke around the tailor making final adjustments. She was the closest thing Sophia had to a friend in Paris and she hated going to these fittings alone.

Eugene could not be trusted knowing what the dress looked like and she couldn’t risk the one surprise she managed to keep from Vincent. Or, she supposed, the one thing he at least pretended not to know about.

“Do you think I would have endured a family function if it wasn’t the dress, Audrey?”

“You’ve endured a lot more for far less.”

Sophia openly glared at the younger woman, who sipped her tiny cup and gave just as pointed of a look back. 

“Frankly, it suits you. You look like you’re walking on a cloud of lace. Or through it, I suppose. It’s smaller than I thought, you know, the skirt and everything. No veil?”

“No. It’s a bit much with a veil.”

Which was apparently the exact thing she wanted to hear because the next thing Sophia knew, a hairpin with a cathedral-length veil was being placed in her hair.

Vincent was right; friend thought she was, the journalist was an absolute menace when she wanted to be. 

* * *

Somewhere between cake and a second round of desserts, Sophia slipped out of the party. It was loud, of course, and her face hurt from smiling. 

To say nothing of the expectant looks on so many faces. Of the hand squeezes. What was it about business rivals making snide comments and family assumptions about life goals? She supposed her absence was only going to draw attention to such talk but at this point, what did it matter?

She would have been happy with a wedding at City Hall. Although, in all fairness, it would have been incredibly awkward to have the mayor officiate their ceremony, all things considered. 

Sophia had talked Vincent out of an even larger affair in the heart of the city and out of twisting arms (a look that passed on Eugene’s face told her the threat wasn’t metaphorical) for the foyer of Opera Garnier. 

The house in Chartres was more than adequate. Not to mention private. They had the space to house her immediate family and it provided a chance for Vincent to plan a party to rival anything he had before. A December wedding wasn’t exactly what she had in mind at first but truthfully, she liked it. Early December had everyone in good spirits, awaiting the holidays, without too much worry for impending snow. 

And it meant escaping the cold for the warmer climate. Not that she knew where they were going. Each of them had to have one secret, she supposed.

The layers of her dress brushed against the floor despite the bustle. She needed ten minutes of solitude that didn’t involve someone holding her skirts for her. Vincent or Eugene would know where to find her, that was what mattered.

Sophia set the rack into position, creating a perfect triangle before plucking a cue from the rack by the windows. She was five shots in when an arm reached around her to correct her aim.

“You’ll have a better line of sight from that angle, it’s too cramped otherwise.”

She took a deep breath and then took the shot, the cue knocking a few balls out of the way and breaking up the cluster further.

“People will get a very distinct idea from our absence,” she said.

“Let them,” Vincent muttered, undoing the top button of his shirt and pulling at his tie. “We should have done as you suggested.”

“Eloped to the mountains?”

“Had a quiet ceremony at City Hall and dinner with friends and your parents. I forgot what churls my own extended family are. Asking about  _ wills _ as if I came back from the dead instead of prison.”

Vincent took a shot, claiming solids for himself and earning another turn. Before he took it, he turned to her, eyes carefully roaming every little detail.

“Everything has been such a blur I haven’t even been able to properly look at you and I don’t want to be robbed of such a thing. I hate when I cannot appreciate the dresses you pick and I’m going to hate seeing it on the floor.”

“That last one’s a lie,” Sophia teased, reaching for his tie and pulling him closer.

“Darling wife, you know me so well. What do you say to the loser having to tell all of our guests that the party is over?”

“That you’re going to be sending apology gifts to those board members of yours, dear husband.”

“We’ll see about that,  _ madame _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live. I'm alive. I made it to 2021. And so did my muse, apparently.
> 
> I've actually been writing and posting, just not for COLP. Genshin Impact caught a lot of my attention at the end of the year and that's where I've been spending a majority of my time. But every now and then, Sophia and Vincent come to mind and on a whim, I decided to finish a short chapter for no other reason than because I wanted to.
> 
> I'm going to do my best to try and get to some of the major points I have oneshots for. Not all of them are happy. But again, these two never get their happy ending the first go-around. Will eventually be addressing some 2020 topics throughout, so we have those to contend with as well.
> 
> If you're reading this, thanks for sticking around. This is just a comfort fic. And in 2021, given the start we've had, we kind of need it.


	8. IV. Test

The return home was far more jarring than it should have been but necessary nonetheless. They settled into a routine again, adapting as needed, their weeks punctuated by weekends out. 

It was easy to miss the signs, slight differences that weren’t necessarily out of the ordinary. 

She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever finish her emails without dashing off to the washroom. This was the third day of nausea and having her head over a porcelain bowl with no cause or trigger. Only at work. She was thankful for that; Vincent was surprisingly worrisome when she was sick, which would only distract him. He was already losing sleep over his own company lately. 

She hadn’t missed the strange look a stranger gave her the other day when she was dabbing her face with a wet paper towel in the nearby café bathroom on her lunch. It was a look Eugene gave her lately, something between knowing a secret and sympathy. 

This was getting out of hand.

Sophia pressed the back of her hand to her cheek and forehead as she walked to the bathroom, thankful for the lack of foot traffic at the gallery. 

No fever. And this started when she got to work and stopped around mid-afternoon. It wasn’t a virus, then. Stress, maybe? That happened sometimes, her deadlines were a little tight lately with shipping and getting new artists. Usually she had anxiety with it, or a headache, though. She had neither. 

_Oh_. Her mind went to the only other likely cause. That was...a possibility...

She shut the door behind her just in time and the floor felt so cold underneath her. It felt nice, weirdly calming and familiar against her knees. After she finished and pressed the handle to get rid of the remains of her breakfast, she leaned her head against the wall. Sophia mentally counted back to their last time- _times_ , she chided-together, and then her last cycle. It hadn’t come in weeks.

And she’d forgotten to pack...

But lately even the slightest hint of his usual cologne sent her stomach into a knot and nausea persisted despite food poisoning not lasting this long. 

Sophia sighed and got up, thoroughly washing out her mouth and cleaning her hands longer than necessary. She should probably close the gallery for the day, she mused. Few things would make her sick for multiple days only at certain times of the day. 

Maybe a doctor’s appointment was warranted. Just to be certain.

* * *

Which was what really caught Vincent's attention-she so rarely went nowadays that it was a red flag in itself. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon worrying that she’d picked something up from a client after all. 

Something she was trying to avoid by not using an over-the-counter test to begin with. But there wasn’t much to be done to avoid the scrutiny. 

Vincent arrived home that night to the smell of spring onion, ginger, and chicken. Dinner was already laid out; Eugene had the night off at Sophia’s request, another red flag. He would have been more than happy to take her out rather than eat in, after the long day he had, if only to spare her the time of cooking. It was a welcome surprise that made his stomach protest. 

Esteban was the first to greet him as usual. The pug was slower in his old age but just as loving. He scooped up the dog and pressed kisses to the top of his head, Esteban snorting excitedly and sneaking in a lick to his cheek.

That was when Vincent saw the envelope tucked under Esteban’s collar. Strange. Why would Esteban be carrying such a thing? He couldn’t have gotten it stuck himself. Vincent pulled it out from the dog’s collar and set the pug down, where he barked twice and trotted off to the kitchen to presumably eat his dinner. 

Vincent glanced up at a sound to find Sophia with her back to him, setting something down on the table. Had she…?

Curious, he slipped a finger under the tucked flap and pulled out a small photo. No, not quite a photograph. It was black and white, a tiny grey bean inside a black section, with data and names. Sophia Karm. Her doctor's name. Today’s date. Measurements of some kind. A test result? What kind of test resulted in…

His mouth went dry. Was she...

He looked over the edge of the paper to find his wife already gauging his reaction. Giving him the facts first to assuage him. How well she knew him. 

He almost choked when he reached the notes section, eyes as wide as dinner plates and his mouth opened and shut several times.

They hadn’t, by any means, _planned_ for this. In the context it always came up in, it was a mutual agreement but overall her decision. They hadn’t even _tried_ , she’d simply forgotten her pill the morning of their long flights and they’d been too overcome with much else to think about it.

A child at his age, at this point in his career, made giving that child the attention they needed and deserved much harder. His wife was nothing if not willing to combat that or find a way to make it work for them, whatever the situation ended up being. 

Vincent quietly crossed the smooth marble of the foyer towards the kitchen, the sonogram held delicately between his fingers like a rare piece of a manuscript. Still speechless, he closed the space between them (much to the dogs’ dismay) and kissed her, hard.

He was happiest with her, just her, and her biological imperative wasn’t the reason he married her. 

But they could give building a life a try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another amalgamation of previous content that I've had for a long time that I didn't know what to do with for a while. 
> 
> The rule of RITD applies to this collection as well.


	9. V. Grief (V)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, the rules of RITD apply here as well. This is not a happy chapter. 
> 
> TW: blood, hospitals, loss, miscarriage.

The smell of antiseptic, bleach, and plastic stopped bothering him long ago. Same with the constant, steady beeping of the heart monitor, interspersed with the occasional low tone that indicated a slow drip of medication through the IV.

He’d long since made his peace with those. 

The stench of pleather from the armchair he sat in, however, was unforgivable. For a private hospital suite with a staff he kept on retainer, he knew they would be able to afford furniture that was both comfortable and easy to keep clean. 

Clean.

Vincent checked his phone, skimming the text he sent to Eugene.

Already covered.

He swallowed hard and  _ almost _ wished he’d taken care of everything himself. He hardly ever felt anything close to shame but this…

No. Sophia couldn’t... _ shouldn’t _ ...be alone. And deep down, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to get everything. He didn’t even know the first thing about getting that much blood out of fabric. 

Hell, he didn’t blame Eugene if the other man threw everything out. It was likely quicker. No chance of stains if the sheets and towels didn’t exist anymore.

It would be handled. 

A part of him almost asked for the paint buckets and the stuffed animal to be hidden. The one they saw while they were out shopping that made her beam brighter than the sun, the one she kept in the armchair in their bedroom, waiting for little hands…

He felt something warm burn his eyes.

He swore nothing was ever as hot as the tears that, a mere few hours ago, soaked the wrinkled shirt he wore when she woke in agony. It wasn’t until blood saturated his cuffs when arranging her in the car that he realized how wrong he was.

Underneath the lull of monitors, he could hear her shift and moan. Her doctor ruled that surgery wasn’t necessary, although from what both of them gathered, it was fairly noninvasive and simple. Sophia opted for medication with a request for an overnight stay. She didn’t want to go home.

And one look at Vincent told him she couldn’t handle it. He could count on a single hand the number of times he saw and heard her plead in a way that seemed to reach his carotid artery and throttle it. 

She finally fell asleep somewhere between 1:00 and 3:00, moving occasionally either to keep warm or in hopes of pain relief. He tried not to think about how many times he held back her hair tonight and how that seemed to outnumber the amount of times he’d done so over the past few weeks. 

Some color was finally returning to her face. Ever since she first woke, she was almost as pale as the sheet tucked under her chin.

All of this had been  _ accidental _ . They hadn’t even truly decided, they hadn’t planned, and they hadn’t even been  _ trying _ .

Vincent let out a choked mirthless laugh, so quietly it almost sounded like a scoff. That seemed to be their way, didn’t it? 

And almost every time, it resulted in some kind of injury. Twice before, it almost cost her life.

He would allow the paint buckets to stay and the stuffed animal would remain on the chair. The grief wasn’t only his, he tried to remind himself, and she needed to deal with it in her own way.

But this?

He was damned if he would ever leave a hospital alone again.

* * *

Vincent watched as Sophia’s eyes seemed to scan every tile of the foyer, and then the kitchen. It was impossible to miss the craning of her neck to view the immaculate surface in front of the elevator. When she turned that critical eye she was so known for back onto him, he knew he’d made the right decision to leave everything else alone.

He was tired of being looked at. Assessed.

He hadn’t missed the glance and mutterings between two of the nurses this morning. 

_ Of course she miscarried, Mon Dieu, he’s so much older than her...poor thing... _

As if they even  _ wanted _ a child to begin with. As though it was forced upon her because she was the wife of a man with too much money. As if she hadn’t had an option when she received that positive test.

They didn’t even need to speak to accuse him. He saw it in their expressions and the shift of their eyes when they gave their dates of birth.

Eleven years meant nothing to them. But for everyone else, it seemed to be grounds to make every assumption under the sun about both of them and their marriage.

Sophia’s words did little to remove the ever-present knit from his brow.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” she murmured. “And I don’t want there to be blame.”

“What makes you think there’s any to be had?”

Not even grief and pain kept her from scrutinizing him; any other time, he would be more than thrilled to hear the spark that came with her words.

But there was a hollowness that rocked him every time she spoke. It was a different kind of grief. One that came with a weight he knew he could never quite understand.

“You wouldn’t have mentioned genetic testing or even asked about staff colleagues abroad otherwise.”

She was right but he was in no mind to admit it. It was a point of pride for her to know him as well as she did. That they saw each other for more than what they presented to the world. 

But it wasn’t about pointing fingers. If he knew their options, knew how to either prevent it from happening again or find a way to make everything viable, he would take it. Didn’t she see that?

Couldn’t she see that if he would always pick her? Over all else?

“We needed to know how to proceed from here in a way that doesn’t jeopardize you,” Vincent replied, his tone clipped. Catching himself, he amended, “Or your health.”

From the inside of his jacket, he pulled out a familiar case that at first glance passed as a cosmetic compact. He wasn’t surprised when her face contorted and her eyebrows slowly lowered as confusion took hold, which gave way to disbelief. 

Instead, she uttered something about the 1960’s and looked away, wounded. Which was what he was trying to avoid to begin with.

When she didn’t take the case from him, he placed it on the kitchen island to his left, the only object on the shining countertop. He didn’t entirely understand her muttered reference. 

Americans were so obtuse that way, assuming their history was shared. 

“I said it once but it bears repeating: do not ask me to endure without you.”

“As if this is meant to save me?” Sophia shifted her weight as she played with the pill case.

He wasn’t entirely sure if it was her exhaustion or if she was testing him and at this point, he couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. 

“Unless you want to go through gambits of testing and push my cardiovascular system to its limit, this will not happen again. Perhaps it’s best to consider that this wasn’t an option for us at all.”

The corner of her mouth twitched and the hand on the pill case clenched. Red-rimmed eyes glared at him with a fury that made the past twenty-four hours feel like a walk in the park.

It was harsher than he intended but she needed to understand. There were just some things that weren’t worth...

“I will take these,” she said slowly. “But I will be doing so at the behest of my physician, _not_ _you_. You don’t make those choices for me. In much the same way you don’t erase blood from the floor to spare me the sight of last night. You know me better than that by now..”

Her tone made the hair on the back of his neck stand up as the tang of bleach sat in the air, finally obvious to him. Sophia clenched the pill case and walked around him, ignoring him the way one ignored an impatient puppy or a panhandler on the street. Stairs were probably not the best idea but she continued on, ignoring the easy option of the elevator tucked into the kitchen corner.

“I’m going to bed. I would like to be alone until you’re ready to stop trying to fucking micromanage my grief as if you’re the reason this happened.”

He didn’t move until he heard the bedroom door close in the distance; whatever kept him going finally gave out and his legs went with it. 

Losing her wasn’t an option. She always cut it too close. He didn’t  _ want  _ to control her. He just wanted to spare her the pain, the reminders, because none of it would have happened if they’d simply been more careful. They could have  _ planned _ . They could have  _ waited _ at least a few months. If they were closer in age, perhaps there was a better chance that she wouldn’t have miscarried at all and she would have woken up to flutters, not searing pain.

It was always his fault when the people he loved died. And this time it was no different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this entire collection is always meant to explore the other aspects of Vincent's character and their relationship as a whole. What one sees as helpful and caring, the other sees as something else entirely. And Sophia's past with a controlling relationship very much has a bearing on her approach with Vincent at times, especially here.


End file.
